


The Heart of the Matter

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: 221B Mine [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Secret Admirer, Secret Crush, Teenlock, Texting, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3332744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the annual Valentine's Week fundraiser, carnations, conversation hearts, and singing telegrams (oh my!) making their way around the school corridors, and Sherlock Holmes has quite happily never received any of them. So, when he gets a box of conversation hearts containing a message from a secret admirer, his first instinct is that it's an elaborate practical joke, but, as he and his mystery suitor begin texting, he starts to wonder if there might be something to this Valentine's Day lark after all. There is, however, the entirely unrelated problem of one John Watson to contend with before he can be sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart of the Matter

**Author's Note:**

> beejohnlocked asked for customized conversation hearts. It got so far out of hand. PLEASE NOTE: This is the only fic that is based around a prompt, and prompts were not open for this series, so please don't send any in.
> 
> There are a lot of pop culture references in this fic, and I can't possibly list them all here, but, if there is something you don't understand, please feel free to ask!
> 
> Also, make sure to check out my [Tumblr](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/) so you can get enter into my [follower giveaway](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/post/108860752976/okay-so-like-i-said-i-reached-1k-a-while-ago)!
> 
> Double also, there's a Valentine's Day playlist: [221B Mine](http://8tracks.com/prettysailorsoldier/221b-mine)!

“I've got sunshine on a cloudy day. When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May.”

Sherlock shuffled past the collection of people gathered around a young girl at her locker, rolling his eyes as he went.

The annual Valentine’s Day athletic department fundraiser was something he most certainly wouldn’t miss, an entire week of various members of the sport teams interrupting classes or clogging up hallways to deliver conversation hearts, carnations, and singing telegrams.

God save them, singing telegrams.

“I guess you'd say: What can make me feel this way?”

He cringed as the football players floundered over the harmonies, the gaggle of girls in front of them almost squealing loud enough to entirely drown it out, and Sherlock wondered vaguely what the real source of excitement was: the message from the secret admirer, or having that message delivered via serenade by a bunch of fit Year 13s.

Rattling his head at the absurdity of allowing such a thought to even take up a fraction of the valuable space in his brain, he spun open his combination lock, flinging the locker door out to block the gruesome scene as he rooted amongst his books for the bottle of aspirin he always had on hand for the literal headaches of academia.

“Sherlock!”

He leaned back from the safe confines of his metal box, acerbic retort perched on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it down as the beaming face of Mike Stamford met him, the man weaving his way against the flow of between-classes traffic to reach his side.

“Hey, Mike,” he replied, yanking free the small bottle of painkillers as he rummaged in his bag for his water bottle with the opposite hand. “You not doing The Temptations tribute this year?” he asked, bobbing his head back to where the chorus was receiving raucous applause.

Mike chuckled, shaking his head. “Naw, thought we’d leave that to the football lads. And by ‘leave’, I mean they insisted,” he added in a mutter, and Sherlock smiled, tipping his head back as he popped in a pill, chasing it with a swig of water. “We’re doing conversation hearts this year.”

“A thankless job,” Sherlock quipped, and Mike laughed.

“Yeah, people do seem to get more excited about the flowers,” he admitted, shrugging a shoulder, and then fell silent, lingering awkwardly as Sherlock switched out his books.

“Did you…need something?” Sherlock prompted, closing the door as he quirked his brow, and Mike blinked, dropping his face as he twisted his backpack around to his side.

“Yes. Well, no, not-not really, I don’t- I just have to give you this.” He pulled free a small box from his bag, the polished paper packaging shining in telltale shades of pink and red as a silver ribbon tied around the middle bounced in the shifting air.

Sherlock looked between Mike and the conversation hearts, brow slowly lifting into his hair. “Why?” he drawled, and Mike frowned.

“Because they’re for you,” he said, as if that would be in any way obvious, and Sherlock blinked, staring down at the sweets as Mike bobbed the box toward him.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes back to the boy’s face, huffing an incredulous laugh as he adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “Right,” he muttered with a flick of his brows, “sure they are.”

“They are,” Mike insisted, stepping forward as Sherlock made to turn away, damned box still held between them. “The order came in this morning.”

“Mhmm,” Sherlock chirped, nodding in mock indulgence, and a soft sigh of exasperation hissed through Mike’s nose, “of course it did. And I suppose you’re delivering it because the sleigh pulled by unicorns was already out on another delivery.”

“Sherlock, I’m serious,” Mike replied, uncharacteristically sharp, and the shock of it was probably the only reason Sherlock didn’t bolt. “I wouldn’t take the piss out of you like this, you know that.”

“I- I guess,” Sherlock murmured, fidgeting at his shirt cuff. “But you might not _know_ ,” he argued, and Mike rolled his eyes. “Someone could’ve put in the order as a joke. Those are probably poisoned.”

“They’re not poisoned,” Mike sighed, ever-patient, “and it wasn’t a joke.”

Sherlock’s lips snapped shut, his eyes narrowing. “How do you know it wasn’t a joke?” he demanded, and Mike blinked, mouth twitching as it closed. “Unless you know who sent it. But those things are supposed to be anonymous.”

“They are anonymous,” Mike interjected, turning the box of hearts over in his hand, “and I don’t know for sure, I just- I have any idea, alright?” He tilted his head, eyes urging compliance without further questions, but Sherlock only further narrowed his gaze. Mike sighed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling before stepping forward, snatching Sherlock’s arm by the wrist and pressing the box of sweets into his palm. “Just take the damn thing,” he muttered, withdrawing before Sherlock could force it back on him, and Sherlock could do nothing but watch him go, mouth flapping in stunned silence.

Dropping his gaze, he stared dumbly at the box in his hand, silver ribbon glinting up at him in inanimate taunt, and then closed his fingers over the surface, hastily looking over his shoulder. No one appeared to have noticed the exchange, however, and there was no pointing and giggling to be found, so he simply shoved the box down into the bag at his side, stowing it in a little-used interior pocket as he twisted on his heels toward Biology, heart hammering for reasons entirely independent of the upcoming test.

*********

Molly? No, she was incapable of subterfuge, and, besides, she hadn’t hinted at anything for months, not since the rugby game she’d dragged him to that he’d actually watched, a hint he hadn’t even intended to give.

Not that he’d have needed to hint, Irene joking about him drooling for the rest of the night, which knocked her off the suspect list too, he supposed. Unless she was doing it as a joke… No, they’d evolved past mind games a while ago; she’d have simply walked up and slapped him if he’d done anything to earn her ire recently.

Which just left someone else he’d given cause to dislike him. Which left the entire school.

Sherlock groaned, halting his pacing to flop down on his bed, back bouncing against the mattress as he slung an arm over his eyes. Turning his head, he caught sight of the box on his bedside table, where he’d placed it when he had arrived home, as if hoping it would suddenly reveal its secrets in the open air without him needing to peel back the lid. That looking less likely by the second, however, he reached out to snatch the sweets, holding them aloft in front of his face as he turned them over in examination.

The box looked normal enough—no obvious signs of tampering or suspicious powders/coloration—and he huffed a frustrated sigh, brows knitting together as he watched the pastel-colored shapes shift through the clear plastic window in the front. A pink heart tumbled down, positioned lettering-down against the heart-shaped viewing slot, and Sherlock froze, not daring to even breathe lest he shift the image away.

The other pieces had had perfectly normal sayings on them, the usual tripe of “Be Mine” and “Cutie Pie”, but this one was different, five numbers stretched across the surface, written neatly in sharp lines of black ink.

_52312_

Sherlock flipped over onto his stomach, caring little-to-none for the bedspread as he ripped open the top of the box, shaking free the sweets. His fingers grew pale with a chalky coating of sugar as he rummaged through the pieces, throat tight as his heart lodged in it, and then he leaned back, scanning over his handiwork.

Six out of the dozens of hearts had numbers written on them, always the same sets repeating, _77143_ and _52312,_ and Sherlock frowned down at the display only a matter of seconds before his eyes widened in understanding.

A phone number. It was a phone number.

And it was also kind of brilliant, however strange and borderline creepy, but he snatched up his mobile anyway, grabbing with his clean left hand as he sucked the sugar dust from his right.

He input the number, saving the contact as nothing but a question mark for the moment, and then paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard as he opened a text message.

What did one say to the possible psychopathic stalker who had sent them a doctored box of conversation hearts?

Figuring that was as good a place to start as any, Sherlock swiped out a message, fingers trembling faintly as he tapped the send button, and then dropped the phone on the mattress, sitting up and stretching away from his embarrassment.

_Not the smartest move to give someone your number before you murder them  
SH_

He bit his lip, fingers tapping erratically at his knee as he pretended not to be staring at the screen, and then lunged forward when it lit up, nearly losing his balance and toppling into the pile of sweets as he opened the reply.

**_It’s about time! Mike gave you those things hours ago! And I’m not going to murder you_ **

Sherlock frowned, though the information did, oddly enough, put him somewhat at ease.

_How do you know when Mike gave them to me?_

**_I’m psychic?_ **

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head as he typed.

_Try again_

**_I might have seen him_ **

_Seen him give them to me?_

**_Maybe_ **

_So you were there?_

**_Possibly_ **

_Not particularly forthcoming are you?_

**_That would sort of defeat the purpose of this whole secret admirer thing, so no_ **

Sherlock blinked, his entire body flushing hot as he stared at the message, mouth going dry.

_Is that what this is?_

**_Well it certainly isn’t an obvious admirer thing_ **

Sherlock smiled, biting hard on his lip as he fought to keep it from blooming into a grin.

_No I suppose hidden messages in boxes of sweets are rather subtle_

**_I try. You probably shouldn’t eat the ones I wrote on btw, I’ve no idea what’s in that pen_ **

_No one ever eats those things_

**_Fair enough_ **

Sherlock stared down at the mobile, tapping the edge of the plastic casing as he tried to think up something more to say, his worry that he’d somehow already been belligerent growing with every passing second of silence, but then the phone chimed again, his secret admirer apparently not quite bored of him yet.

**_You don’t have to talk to me if this is weird. I mean I know it’s kind of creepy_ **

Sherlock’s fingers twitched over the screen, puzzling over a reply as the phone chirped again.

**_I just didn’t know how else to do it_ **

_Do what?_

**_Talk to you_ **

Sherlock puffed a small laugh, allowing himself just a moment to beam like a moron as he lay down on his bed, holding the phone in front of his face as he settled onto the pillow.

_You’re still not really talking to me_

**_I’m working up to it_ **

_With conversation hearts?_

**_Baby steps Sherlock, baby steps_ **

Sherlock chuckled, and then his smile slowly faded, face creasing in puzzlement.

_Do I know you?_

He waited a moment, and then added another message, clarifying the point.

_I mean from school or something. Have we ever interacted?_

**_Like at all?_ **

_Yes_

**_Then yes_ **

Sherlock’s heart skipped an entirely impermissible beat, and he swallowed hard, steadying himself for no real reason other than personal pride, no one there to see him whether he bit at the corners of his nails or not.

_But we’ve never talked?_

**_Not really. Nothing you’d remember_ **

_I remember a lot of things_

**_I don’t doubt it. Okay I asked you for a pen once_ **

_Lots of people have asked me for pens_

**_Thus preserving my anonymity_ **

_What class was it?_

**_You’ll figure it out if I tell you that_ **

_No one could be that clever_

**_You could_ **

Sherlock had developed a heart condition, he was sure of it, the muscle dangerously enlarged and pounding violently against his ribs.

_You don’t even know me_

**_I know enough_ **

_Enough for what?_

**_Enough to know I can’t tell you what class it was_ **

Sherlock laughed, feet tapping together as his legs sprawled out atop the duvet.

_Fair enough. What can you tell me then?_

**_Depends what you wanna know_ **

_Whatever you’ll tell me_

**_No that’s far too simple. You have to ask_ **

_Like 20 Questions?_

**_More like 5. You’ll figure it out in 20_ **

_I need more than 5_

**_Well you’re not getting 20_ **

_15?_

**_5_ **

_You can’t counter with the same number_

**_Feel like I just did_ **

_Fine, 10 questions_

**_6_ **

_You only went up one!_

**_But I did go up_ **

_8 questions?_

**_I can live with 8_ **

_Your sacrifice is greatly appreciated. Okay first question: What year are you in?_

**_You can’t do that, they have to be yes or no questions_ **

_According to whom?_

**_Did you just use whom in a text message?_ **

_It’s grammatically correct_

**_It’s a text message_ **

_So the rules of the English language no longer apply?_

**_No I’ll just have to be careful not to mix up my yours. Anyway what’s you’re question?_ **

_Did you do that on purpose?_

**_Dew watt on porpoise?_ **

_Hilarious_

**_I have my moments. Seriously though what’s YOUR question?_ **

_Are you in my year?_

**_Yes_ **

Sherlock stilled, glancing to the cupboard across the room where he knew his yearbook was kept, but it was hardly worth the trouble with somewhere around 200 students in Year 13, and, besides, whoever it was might not even be in there if they were new.

_Are you in any of my classes?_

**_Yes_ **

A veritable parade of faces flashed across Sherlock’s mind, but that still hardly narrowed it down at all, his path crossing with almost everyone in the year at some point or another. There was something that could cut out a large chunk of the potentials, however, but he was hesitant to ask, his teeth clamping down hard on his lip as he wavered. Finally, he caved, sweeping out the message before pressing the phone face down on the bed.

_Are you female?_

He closed his eyes, blowing out a breath at the ceiling as he waited for the response. If it was a girl, he could play it out, become thoroughly unpleasant and tactfully drive her away, but, if it wasn’t… Well, it didn’t narrow the suspect pool down by as much—a disproportionate amount of the students in his science classes being male—but it certainly made things much less awkward. And a lot less pointless.

He shook his head, huffing out a self-deprecating laugh.

Why was he even _humoring_ this? This person didn’t know him, and he most certainly didn’t know them. In all likelihood, whoever it was would figure out he was insufferable just as quickly as most everyone else seemed to, and this would be nothing but a funny story they would hopefully wait until he had graduated to start telling. And yet, in spite of himself, in spite of the logical part of his brain waggling a scolding finger as it shook its head in stern disapproval, Sherlock _was_ humoring it, and would probably _continue_ to humor it, because, apparently, he was still human somewhere in there, and, damn it all, it was nice! It was nice to not be mocked and snickered at, to have someone take a seemingly genuine interest for once. And he was flirting and blushing and he was being an idiot, he really needed to stop this right now before it got out of hand.

His phone chimed, and he lunged for it, glancing around the room as if the walls could somehow be witness to the shameful display.

**_Ah yeah thought that might come up. No I’m not female. If that’s okay_ **

Sherlock smiled, lowering the phone to his chest a moment before tapping out a response.

_Does your answer change if it’s not okay?_

**_No but I’d stop bothering you_ **

_You’re not bothering me_

**_So it’s okay?_ **

Sherlock’s fingers hovered over the keyboard as he hesitated, considering the easy opportunity to call the whole thing off, to bail before he stumbled too far in to turn back. Just as quickly, however, he dismissed it, never one to leave a puzzle unsolved. And, besides, he still had five questions.

_It’s okay._

A long pause, Sherlock turning the mobile over in his hands, wondering how he could have possibly screwed up in two words.

**_Well that’s a relief_ **

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head down at the reply with a truly embarrassing grin.

_I suppose it is. So you’re gay?_

He wasn’t aware of many openly gay male students in any of his classes, and it would be an embarrassment to his self-proclaimed profession if he hadn’t figured out any of them were interested in him, but the stranger’s reply set his mind at ease.

**_No I’m bi. And not out really._ **

Sherlock nodded in commiseration as he settled further into his pillow, the anxiety in his stomach beginning to ebb.

_I’m not either. Not that everyone hasn’t already guessed._

**_They don’t know really, they just talk. I think it’s the violin thing_ **

_You’re in orchestra?_

**_Didn’t say that. No I have no rhythm. Can’t even do that tap your head rub your stomach thing_ **

_Drama?_

**_Nope_ **

_Some kind of sport?_

**_You do realize that’s your seventh question_ **

_The orchestra and drama ones don’t count_

**_Oh they don’t do they?_ **

_No, they were conversational._

**_And here I thought I was the one being sneaky_ **

Sherlock chuckled, pinching his thumbnail between his teeth a moment before responding, his heart gradually rising to lodge at the base of his throat.

_Turnabout is fair play._

**_Apparently_ **

There was quiet a long moment, Sherlock’s nerves oddly unbothered by the silence, a strange sort of comfort settling over him as he waited for the follow-up he somehow knew was imminent.

**_You know, you’re different than I thought_ **

Sherlock frowned, tilting his head at the screen as it chimed again.

**_Not in a bad way. Just not what I expected._ **

_How do you mean?_

**_I don’t know exactly. I guess you just always seemed so…far. I was kind of prepared for this to be a flop._ **

_Why?_

**_Because you’re so much smarter than I am_ **

_That’s hardly relevant. And I’m smarter than everyone, so that much was a given regardless._

**_Humble too. Well not to add to your superiority complex but you’re also much better looking_ **

Sherlock was going to die, was going to spontaneously combust and leave a mess of ashes for the maids to roll their eyes at tomorrow when they came in after he’d supposedly left for school.

_I highly doubt that’s true._

**_Well I know what we both look like so you’re just gonna have to trust me. You’re out of my league, Mr. Holmes._ **

_Unlikely. I’d have to be in a league to begin with._

**_Maybe you’re just in a league of your own_ **

_Very far away from all the other leagues_

**_Only because you’re out ahead_ **

_Can I ask a non yes/no question now?_

**_Changing the subject much? But yeah sure. Although I reserve the right not to answer_ **

_Naturally. What’s the point of this?_

**_What do you mean?_ **

_I mean what happens now? Why did you do all this?_

**_I wanted to talk to you_ **

_Well you’ve accomplished that much, so what happens now? We just text?_

**_For now_ **

_What happens after now?_

**_You’re not all that fond of mysteries are you?_ **

_I’m fonder of answers._

**_Well then I suppose we will text until I stop being a coward_ **

Sherlock blinked, lips popping apart as he stared at the message, temporarily stunned by the frankness of it, and perhaps that was why he let his diligence slide with his response, accidentally showing a few more cards than he’d intended.

_When will that be?_

**_I don’t know really. Do you want_ ** _**a set time?**_

_I don’t care._

**_You do or you wouldn’t’ve asked. Well it’s Monday today. How about Friday? After the rugby game?_ **

_You’re going to the game?_

**_Everyone goes to the rugby games_ **

_Evidently not everyone_

**_Think you can make an exception?_ **

Sherlock waited just long enough to make it appear like he’d deliberated, counting out a minute’s worth of seconds as he tapped the side of his foot against the mattress.

_I suppose._

**_I’m honored_ **

_You really should be._

**_I wasn’t joking. Right now I’ve gotta sleep though. Test tmrw_ **

_What class?_

**_You almost got me, I had it typed out and everything. You’re going to be trouble aren’t you?_ **

_I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to._

**_No of course you don’t. Goodnight Sherlock. I’ll talk to you tmrw_ **

_You will?_

**_I will._ **

_Okay. Goodnight._

Sherlock curled up on his side, trying and failing horrendously to bite his grin into submission. There was an obnoxious amount of fluttering in his chest, interfering with the smoothness of his breathing, and he’d have seriously considered the possibility that he was having a heart attack if he couldn’t feel the muscle working just fine, pounding to shake against the phone clutched to his chest.

“Fuck,” he muttered, but there was no real heat to it, and he carefully placed the vandalized conversation hearts on his nightstand, haphazardly sweeping the rest of them onto the floor before falling asleep scrolling through the messages again and again.

*********

“What if it’s one of the professors?”

“Why do I ever tell you anything?”

“Because you value my feminine perspective and in- MR. ROBERTSON!”

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes as he snatched the phone away from Irene’s pale digits, the girl grinning across at him in unrestrained glee as she lifted the burning cigarette to her lips.

“I told you he always watches you bend down to get hydrochloric acid,” she chirped, dragging in a breath before releasing a slow swirl of smoke from her rounded lips.

“That’s because he think I’m going to steal it,” Sherlock snapped back, and Irene chuckled, leaning back against the brick wall as she tapped free some of the ashes. Sherlock glared at her, and then rattled his head, turning away as he rested against the wall beside her, taking a drag of his own cigarette.

They always spent break back here, just the two of them ever since Irene had had it out with some of the Year 11 girls last month. They’d never gotten caught, but Sherlock suspected that had less to do with their stealth than it did the administration not wanting to bother, neither him nor Irene worth the trouble of punishing in their last few months at the school. Not that they’d ever attempted it, Sherlock’s family old money that had funded half the campus, and Irene having some sort of blackmail on nearly the entire staff. Really, he probably could’ve been stealing hydrochloric acid all this time. What a waste.

“Who do you think it is, then?” Irene asked, bobbing her head down toward the phone held aloft in front of his chest.

“Dunno,” Sherlock shrugged, scrolling through the messages again, nothing new added since last night, a silence he didn’t have the faintest idea how to break. “Could be anyone, really. They said they were a man and in at least one of my classes, but that could’ve been a lie.”

“Oh, no, it’s definitely a man,” Irene interjected, nodding out at the pale grey sky.

“How can you tell?” Sherlock asked, frowning down at the messages, but Irene only shrugged.

“I just can,” she replied airily, dropping what little remained of her cigarette and grinding it beneath the sole of her shoe.

“What, you’re a psychic now?” Sherlock muttered, and Irene laughed, slipping her hands into her pockets as she waited for Sherlock to snuff out his own cigarette.

“One of my many lesbian superpowers,” she quipped, flashing him a wink as she bobbed her head toward the corner of the building, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, hunching his shoulders against a breeze as her followed back toward the courtyard. “So, what are you gonna do?” she asked as they drew near the main door, slowing a bit before they had to part ways beyond. “You want me to come to the game Friday? Scope him out first? If he’s a real minger, I’ll text you, and you can make a run for it.”

Sherlock chuckled, smiling as he shook his head. “No, I’ll be fine. I can always very suddenly contract food poisoning.”

“Grandmother took a tumble down the stairs.”

“My grandmother’s dead.”

“Yeah, but _he_ won’t know that.”

“The library’s named after her. There was a dedication ceremony,” Sherlock countered, laughing as Irene wrinkled her nose at him. “Thank you, though,” he murmured, looking down at his feet where they shuffled along the pavement. “For-For the offer.”

“Don’t go wellin’ up on me, Holmes,” Irene teased, and Sherlock laughed, nudging lightly at her arm with an elbow. “Text me later, yeah?” she said as they passed through the door, turning to walk backwards down their opposite ways in the corridor. “I want an update!”

“As you wish, milady,” Sherlock teased, tipping his head in a faint bow, and Irene rolled her eyes, throwing a middle finger up over her shoulder as she turned away from him. He chuckled, shaking his head at her retreating figure, and then twisted on his heels, ambling toward chemistry as the crowds thinned in the corridors.

Unsurprisingly, he was a few minutes late, Mr. Robertson already shuffling papers at his desk when Sherlock peered through the window in the door. He shifted his gaze toward his usual spot at the back, Molly already standing behind their usual lab table, her eyes fixed on him with sharp disapproval. Sherlock shrugged, lifting his hands into view to exaggerate the silent gesture, and Molly rolled her eyes, her lips pursed in exasperation. He spared a moment to beam at her, and then cast a glance to the back of the room, trying to figure out if he could slip in the other door without Mr. Robertson noticing just as a voice rang out in the lab.

“Professor?” a boy beckoned, and Mr. Robertson looked up, prompting Sherlock to duck down to barely peeking over the window frame. “I was wondering if you could clarify something for me from last class.”

“Of course,” the professor replied, moving past the window, and then bent low over the table to see the spot the student was pointing out in his notes, revealing the young man to Sherlock’s prying eyes.

John Watson’s lips moved as he looked up at the teacher, no doubt explaining the source of his confusion, and Sherlock’s stomach wriggled uncomfortably as he watched him, his normal practice being to avoid looking at the captain of the rugby team at all costs. Especially when he was wearing the royal blue jacket denoting said title, the color further brightening his already obnoxious eyes while simultaneously making his skin look all-the-tanner and his hair all-the-blonder, and, _god_ , if Sherlock hadn’t been pretty sure he was gay before, John Watson arriving at their school two years ago had sealed that deal pretty thoroughly. Fucking rugby shorts.

Swallowing stiffly, he was about to give up on chemistry for today, heading down to the nurse to fake a migraine and get a lovely little excuse scrawled on a slip of white paper, when, quite possibly for the first time _ever_ , John lifted his chin, eyes unmistakably fixing on Sherlock, who promptly grew roots.

John smiled, a faint twitch of his mouth that nevertheless rattled Sherlock’s knees, and then bobbed his head toward the back of the classroom, lifting his brows in subtle hint. His expression flattened out instantly as Mr. Robertson looked up at him, the blond nodding politely in feigned interest until the professor looked away again, and then focused once again on Sherlock. He jerked his head again, a little more forceful this time, and Sherlock blinked, startled at the picture as the pieces fell into place.

Gingerly, eyes fixed on the back of Mr. Robertson the entire time, Sherlock compressed the handle of the door, John helpfully coughing over the rattle of metal as he crept inside the classroom. He closed the door almost soundlessly behind him, but John shifted his stool just in case.

“So, with the optical isomers,” he questioned, pointing to a picture in his book, “they’re mirror images, but not identical?”

“Exactly,” Mr. Robertson said as Sherlock shuffled along the edge of the room, the entire class watching him with a mix of awe and outrage, and he suspected the only reason he hadn’t been revealed right away was because John was the one helping him. For some unfathomable reason. “Their chemical structures are identical, but the three-dimensional positioning is different,” the professor continued as Sherlock slid into his spot beside Molly, who had been steadily shaking her head at him the entire time.

“What are you-” she whispered, but Sherlock hissed her quiet, silently lowering his bag to the floor next to his stool as he bent down.

“Okay, I think I get it now,” John said from in front of him, though Sherlock could no longer see him from where he was hiding behind the table.

A moment later, Mr. Robertson’s footfalls could be heard crossing back to the front of the room, Sherlock waiting for the squeak of a marker over the whiteboard before he straightened up, sliding onto his stool and flipping his notebook open on the table in one fluid motion.

“Now, what we’re going to be looking at today is-” the professor began, and then stopped, blinking wildly as his eyes found Sherlock, who tilted his head as if perplexed. “Holmes?” the man sputtered as Sherlock frowned. “You- When did you-” he stammered, looking frantically between Sherlock and the door.

Sherlock blinked, shifting his face to convey a small measure of concern. “Sir?” he prompted, and, though Mr. Robertson’s jaw shifted, eyes narrowing a fraction, he let the matter drop.

“Nothing,” he muttered, twisting back to the whiteboard as he continued writing. “As I was saying, today we’ll be talking about the thalidomide tragedy to further our understanding of optical isomers. I’m sure you all read the article in your book, but I printed off a few supplementary materials as well.” He moved to his desk, lifting a stack of white paper off his desk, and then crossed to the edge of the room, counting out pages as he distributed small piles at the end of each row.

A shuffle of paper and inevitable rumble of chatter followed, Molly turning to him in the interlude, a sharp glare folding her features.

Sherlock blinked owlishly at her, lips pouting in a pantomime of confusion. “What?” he asked, breaking character to chuckle as she huffed, rolling her eyes, and then he turned his gaze forward, finding blue eyes on him yet again.

John was looking over his shoulder, his body turned to pass the bundle of paper along the row, and, in the second their eyes locked, he smiled in that same small way Sherlock decided right then and there would forever be his favorite.

Almost automatically, though he’d never had such an impulse before, a corner of his own lips twitched up, and he dipped his head in the faintest nod he could manage, a subtle conveyance of thanks.

John seemed to catch it, however, his smile growing just enough to glint in his eyes before he turned back around, and, should his life have depended on it, Sherlock couldn’t have recalled a single word of the following lecture, his mind equal parts occupied with calming his pounding heart and cataloging every shift of the light in John’s hair.

*********

**_Hey where are you right now?_ **

_Witnessing a failure of natural selection_

**_Ah so you’re in the cafeteria too_ **

Sherlock snorted, quickly stifling his smile as Irene lifted a brow at him across the table.

“Mr. Perfect?” she questioned, the nickname she’d coined for the mysterious admirer at some point over the past two days of near-continuous texting. “It’s only Wednesday, you know,” she clipped, sipping diet coke up her red-striped straw. “You should at least wait until you meet him before you fall head-over-tits.”

“I’m not-” Sherlock started, but broke off into a glare as Irene’s smug quirk of an eyebrow made it clear arguing would be wasted breath. Instead, he dropped his face back to his phone, swiping out a response as his eyes lifted across the cafeteria, watching as a group of footballers delivered serenades around the room.

_Nat King Cole is probably rolling over in his grave_

**_Personally I’m hoping he rises right out of it and shows up to eat their brains_ **

Sherlock smiled, fingers hovering as he considered his response, but, before he could decide, another message chimed through.

**_At least they’re learning something. Even if it is only how to spell Love_ **

He chuckled, looking up once again to the group of wannabe crooners, and then the smile slipped from his face, eyes beginning to dart around.

His secret admirer had to be someone in this room, someone close enough to hear the song the footballers were singing. They were quite loud, but still, they had only started singing that particular song a few moments ago, so whoever it was had to still be in the area.

Irene caught onto the tension in his posture and frowned, leaning in over the table as she dropped her voice. “What?” she hissed as Sherlock flicked a glance at her. “What are you looking for?”

“Who,” he clarified, bobbing his phone in gesture, and Irene’s brow furrowed only a moment before she nodded in understanding.

“Send another one,” she whispered, flicking a hand at him as she turned her eyes to scan out over the cafeteria, and Sherlock promptly obeyed, ducking his chin to tap at the keyboard.

_I’d prefer they learn how to harmonize_

He looked up when he’d finished, gaze flitting across the students to find someone checking their phone, but Irene kicked at his ankle with a heel, cutting the search short.

“Don’t stare,” she snapped, and he glared up at her, folding his arms on the table.

“You’re staring,” he countered, but the brunette only rolled her eyes.

“Well, we can’t both stare,” she replied, lifting her brows imperiously as she peered at him from the corner of her eye, and, though he had to scoff for posterity, he did lean back in his chair, gaze lowering to the table in front of him. “Let me know when you get a reply,” the woman added in a whisper, and Sherlock nodded, sitting his phone beside him atop the table.

A few moments later, it beeped, Irene giving the room one last quick scan before turning back to him with a sigh and shake of her head.

“It’s no use; _everyone’s_ on their phone in here,” she muttered bitterly, shifting her aluminum can over the tabletop. “Honestly, what ever happened to talking? Like, with our _mouths_?”

Sherlock shrugged, swiping his phone up once more. “Probably the same thing that happened to bayonets and phonographs,” he replied, avoiding Irene’s eyes as he saw her blurry figure turn to glower at him through his lashes.

**_You and me both. My Girl is physically painful_ **

People began to trickle out, many students having classes that picked up soon, and, as Irene got up to toss her can and empty crisps bag in the bin, Sherlock took the opportunity to scan the crowd once more, tapping out another message to lure his target into the open.

_I don’t understand why everyone likes getting them so much_

He lifted his face, searching from person to person as he tried to find a likely culprit, but, Irene was right, there were a lot of people on their phones. He could rule out the women, though, which helped considerably, but there were still too many potentials, several important variables still unknown in the process of elimination.

There was a group of art students leaving out a door to his left, at least three of the men amongst them holding mobiles in their hands, and a gathering of fellow science students he had nevertheless never spoken to still seated at a table across the room from him, but it was impossible to say, none of them lifting their eyes from their screens to look at him, what would have been a telltale sign. The section unofficially cordoned off for the athletically inclined Sherlock didn’t even consider, mostly due to the fact that any lingering of his eyes in that general direction would result in accusations he didn’t have the time or energy to combat at the moment, but they were also engaged in very boisterous conversation, laughing and generally making a spectacle of themselves. It wasn’t exactly an environment he’d consider conducive to secretive texting, but, ever the scientist, he cast a cursory glance over the group, double-checking none of them were on their devices. There were a few mobiles out, mostly for the clear purpose of putting something on display for a gathering of onlookers, but Sherlock’s train of thought was abruptly derailed when his scanning eyes scraped to a stop on a particular blond head of hair.

John Watson was at the end of one of the tables, mostly removed from the conversation, although someone would turn to him every now and again, barking out a joke or question he’d politely respond to, a slightly pinched smile pulling at his mouth.

Sherlock didn’t know why John had helped him on Monday—didn’t know anything about him at all, really—but, in the two days since their first interaction, something had…shifted. Nothing obvious, nothing more tangible than a slight change in the direction of a breeze, but he thought John’s eyes caught his more than normal when the blond would look back to check the clock in chemistry or biology, or when they’d pass in the hallways. Sherlock had never noticed just how much their schedules coincided until now, suddenly hyperaware of John’s presence as he was, and, apparently, that might go both ways, because, as he watched John reach forward to snag his can of coke off the table, blue eyes flicked across the room, landing instantly and unerringly on his own.

“Ready?” Irene asked, reappearing at his side, and Sherlock jumped, blinking his widening gaze up at her.

“I- Yeah,” he muttered, nodding as he stood, peeking through his lashes to find John had already looked away. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Good,” Irene chirped, leading him out the double doors and down the corridor toward her next class—drama, naturally. “I wanted to run through my lines with you again. Brian’s useless, always looking down my shirt and getting distracted. I’m telling ya, one of these days, that prop dagger is going right into his neck.”

“Method acting?” Sherlock replied, and Irene laughed, tipping her head back.

“Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe topful of direst cruelty!” she recited grandly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You know, I never asked,” he remarked airily, tipping his head with a mocking frown. “How do you feel about being typecast?” he quipped, chuckling as Irene shoved him hard on the arm, his steps staggering a bit before he straightened.

His phone chimed, and he lunged into his pocket, flipping the screen upright as he unlocked it.

**_I dunno, some people like that whole public declaration thing_ **

_Like who?_

**_I don’t know. People. Not me, but surely there’s someone._ **

_I’d hate it_

**_I figured. Thus the grand conversation heart plot_ **

_Plot?_

**_I couldn’t think of an alliteration_ **

_Caper? Conundrum? Charade? Code? Cipher? Cryptogram?_

**_I knew I should’ve send a singing telegram instead_ **

_Our correspondence would have been much less cordial if you had_

**_You’re using c-words on purpose aren’t you?_ **

_Your conclusion is not completely counterfactual_

**_Okay now you’re just making things up_ **

“You are being careful, aren’t you?” Irene asked, and he looked up, finding an uncharacteristically soft expression on her face. “I don’t mean- I’m not saying it’s a fifty-year-old man who reads stories to his mother’s skeleton every night,” she continued, flicking a hand through the air, “I just mean- Well, you’re the only vaguely interesting person I know at this school.” The volume of her voice dipped as Sherlock snapped his head up to her in surprise, her eyes determinedly fixed on the bulletin boards they were passing. “I’d hate for you to get all heartbroken and turn into just another one of these losers.”

Sherlock chuckled, nudging her lightly on the arm with his elbow, and she glanced at him out of the corner of her sharply winged eyes, half her painted mouth twitching up. “I’m not going to get my heart broken,” he assured, shaking his head when she only lifted her brows. “He probably won’t even like me once he meets me,” he added in a murmur, and Irene stopped dead in the corridor, his mouth opening to ask what was wrong when it instead let out a yelp of pain. “Ow!” he cried, rubbing at the back of his head where her firm slap had landed. “What was that-”

“Don’t talk shit about yourself!” she barked, eyes fierce as she waggled a finger under his nose. “I resent it! It’s my job, and one of my few joys in life!”

Sherlock huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he dropped his hand away from it. “Okay,” he replied, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender, and her glower cautiously waned. “I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

She eyed him a moment longer, and then clipped a sharp nod, twisting on her heels and continuing off down the corridor. “Good,” she snapped, and Sherlock smiled down at his shoes, hands slipping into the pockets of his dark jeans.

“Thank you, Irene,” he murmured, her eyes flicking down to his with a soft smile.

“Don’t mention it,” she answered, smile shifting to a smirk as she lifted her chin, steps bouncing as they quickened. “Your cologne smells like cat piss, by the way.”

“Thank you, Irene,” he repeated with notably less enthusiasm, and the brunette threw back her head and laughed, linking her arm with Sherlock’s as he shook his head, positively refusing to be charmed.

*********

_What if I couldn’t come to the game on Friday?_

**_You can’t go?_ **

_No, I’m asking what would happen if I couldn’t._

**_But why are you asking if you can?_ **

Sherlock sighed, tossing the mobile down onto his bed as he paced across the grey carpet of his room, hands lifting to tug fitfully at his curls.

It was late Wednesday night, so late that it was Thursday morning, and he’d given up on homework hours ago, his earlier worries about Conversation Hearts spinning his mind to distraction.

There were so many things he hadn’t considered, so many things he _couldn’t_ consider without knowing who it was, and it was _stupid_ of him, so foolish to get this involved without first knowing all the variables, without putting together any sort of exit strategy. Irene was wrong about a lot of things, but she had been right about one: Getting your heart broken was just about as normal as it got, and Sherlock was decidedly _not_ normal, nothing about him remotely equipped to deal with something as pedestrian as sentiment. It was beneath him and beyond him all at once, and he sank down onto the edge of the bed with a sigh, snaking his hand across the duvet to fetch his phone once more.

_Nothing, forget it_

He flopped back down atop the blankets, his eyes blinking unfocused at the swirling plaster ceiling, but he did not have to wait long, the mobile quaking in his hand mere seconds later.

**_I’m worried too ya know_ **

Sherlock frowned, bending his knees up onto the bed as he held the phone aloft over his face.

_Worried about what?_

**_About you not liking me_ **

He blinked, staring at the message as if the letters would rearrange themselves.

_I never said I was worried about that._

**_No but I just did, so it’s okay if you do now_ **

Sherlock bit his lip, fingers tapping at the edge of the plastic a moment as he wavered. Eventually, he swallowed, blowing out a breath as he resigned himself to the sickly anxious feeling that always came with revealing a truth.

_You don’t really know me_

**_You don’t know me either_ **

_It’s different_

**_How?_ **

_Because nobody ever likes me_

Silence, the longest silence in the long history of long silences, and then, so loud he nearly fell off the bed as he jumped, the reply arrived.

**_Even not including me that’s not true, but believe me, I do like you. Really like you. And I have for a while now._ **

It was an odd feeling, like finally being able to breathe and yet also suddenly not having any lungs, but Sherlock was smiling regardless, teeth pressing into a corner of his bottom lip as he flopped contentedly down atop the warm duvet.

_A while?_

**_A while_ **

_How long is a while?_

**_A while_ **

_Ballpark figure?_

**_A whileish while_ **

_Can I guess?_

**_You can offer suggestions I may or may not confirm or deny_ **

_Within this school year?_

**_Kind of_ **

_What do you mean, kind of?_

**_I’m not sure it counts when it’s the entire school year_ **

**_And a bit of the last one_ **

**_Like the last bit of the last one_ **

_I thought you weren’t going to tell me_

**_People change_ **

_Can I ask you something?_

**_Your fifth question?_ **

_No. Well, it can be, but it’s not yes or no._

**_Go ahead_ **

_Why didn’t you say anything sooner?_

**_I don’t know really. I guess it’s just one of those things you talk yourself out of you know? Like there’s always a better time?_ **

**_But then I started filling out university applications and realized I didn’t have much time left_ **

**_You could be going off to America for all I know. Harvard. Yale. Other American universities I’m sure exist._ **

_I’m not going off to America. Not even leaving London, I don’t think._

**_What’s on your shortlist?_ **

_Imperial or Barts_

**_Very short shortlist_ **

_Thus the name._

_What about you?_

**_My shortlist?_ **

_Your shortlist_

**_It’s longer than yours_ **

_Brown? Berkley? Princeton?_

**_Those are American universities aren’t they?_ **

_Perhaps._

**_I need encyclopedias to talk to you I swear._ **

**_But no, no American universities. I’ll probably be in London too_ **

_Okay_

**_Okay?_ **

_As in it is not particularly good or bad_

**_It’s not?_ **

_Well I suppose it’s not bad_

**_So it’s good?_ **

_I didn’t say that_

**_You didn’t not say it either_ **

_That doesn’t make any sense_

**_And now you’re getting defensive_ **

_No I’m not_

**_He said defensively_ **

_I’m typing_

**_He typed defensively_ **

_You’re absurd._

**_And you’re adorable_ **

**_Sherlock?_ **

**_Sheeeeeerlooooooock?_ **

**_I guess you fell asleep_ **

**_I’ll talk to you tmrw_ **

**_Goodnight Sherlock_ **

**_P.S. I think it’s good too_ **

*********

“Hey, Holmes!”

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes at the interior of his locker as he steeled himself. “What?” he muttered, pushing the door shut as he turned, coming face-to-face with Elliot Newton, the suspiciously massive fullback for the rugby team.

“You do the homework for bio?” the boy grunted, bobbing his brown, bowl-cut head at Sherlock’s backpack, which he promptly shifted further behind his thighs.

“Yeah,” he replied, knowing it would be worse to lie now only to produce the paper when the teacher called for it. “Why?”

Elliot smiled, his lips curling in a mocking twist. “Because I didn’t, and I need to copy it.”

“There’s still two periods before biology,” Sherlock countered, shuffling a step back as the man moved forward. “You have plenty of time to do it yourself.”

“Yeah, but you always have the right answers.”

“Good thing you have plenty of time to read the chapter too, then,” he snipped, and Elliot’s eyes narrowed.

“Give me the homework,” he growled, but Sherlock only sniffed, unintimidated by the display.

“Do it yourself,” he replied, mimicking the man’s intonation, and then made to turn away, an effort cut off by a sharp twist on his wrist.

“Listen, fairy-”

“What does that even mean?” Sherlock interjected, wrenching his hand away. “Since when are mythological creatures synonyms for sexual orientations? And why am _I_ the fairy, anyway?” he sputtered, waving a hand over his chest. “I’m not the one prancing around fields chasing sweaty men in shorts.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d been punched in the face, and, all things considered, it probably wouldn’t be the last, but it was one of those things you never quite got used to, Elliot’s fist coming up in slow motion to give him but a beat of a second to silently scold himself. Not that he wouldn’t say it again in a heartbeat.

He didn’t fall, miracle of miracles, but he did stagger back rather precariously, the side of his face throbbing as he lifted a hand to it, feeling something slick and warm he knew from experience was blood trickling down from his lip.

“The fuck did you say to me!?” Elliot raged, and Sherlock felt a rush of panic, his eyes widening as he realized that, if Irene, Molly, or Mike had been in the vicinity to help, they would’ve done it already, and no one else was likely to, so he was probably about to finally know what a broken rib felt like.

Goodbye, cruel world; I honestly despised every single second I spent on your miserable surface.

“HEY!”

Sherlock froze, Elliot froze, the entire corridor froze except for the solitary figure of John Watson, shouldering through the gathered crowd with eyes that could probably burn you to ash if you looked into them long enough.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing!?” he snarled, stepping between them as he batted Elliot’s arms away.

“He started it!” Elliot contested, like a child, and Sherlock almost stuck his tongue out at him before he recognized the irony and restrained himself. “I just wanted the biology homework, and his faggot ass wouldn’t give it to me!”

“Really?” Sherlock mocked, tipping his head as he lifted his brows. “ _That’s_ the description you’re going with?”

Elliot opened his mouth, momentarily confused, and then snapped his lips shuts, turning a purplish shade of red Sherlock didn’t believe he’d ever provoked someone into before. The man then started forward, lunging toward him, but John intervened, pushing back hard against his chest, and Elliot, bulldozer as he was, staggered under the blow, Sherlock feeling a sudden kinship with swooning female heroines in misogynistic action movies.

“Knock it off!” John barked, and even Sherlock’s spine straightened at the tone, though John wasn’t Captain to him. The idea wasn’t entirely unappealing though, and he swallowed hard, rattling his head slightly as he fought to stay focused. “Or you’ll be benched for tomorrow’s game!”

Elliot laughed, a gnarled, breathy thing that hissed through his teeth. “Please, they’re not gonna bench me. Not this close to the final.”

“You’re probably right,” John replied, voice lilting sarcastically. “If only there was someone _else_ who could decide who did or didn’t get to play during a game. Oh wait!” He tugged at his jacket, pulling the left side forward over his chest as he tapped at the white patch stitched into the blue. “‘C’! For Captain!” he mocked brightly, and then his hands dropped back to his sides, expression and tone shifting to ice. “Pull a stunt like that again and you don’t start for the rest of the season,” he warned, and Sherlock’s kneecaps melted into his shins as he stared, looking between Elliot’s waning rage and the half of John’s face he could see from his position behind him.

Finally, Elliot set his jaw, eyes blazing as they narrowed on Sherlock, but John shifted just slightly to the side, overlaying his body in wordless threat, and the boy began to shuffle away. “Whatever,” he grumbled, looking Sherlock up and down as he departed, and Sherlock was just about to wink at him and probably start this whole thing over again when John turned, an incomprehensible amount of fury still on his face.

Sherlock blinked, confusion and building terror prompting him to speech. “What?” he murmured, eyes widening when John’s narrowed, but then the blue was drawn down to the wound he’d nearly forgotten about on his lip, which stung anew now, his fingers instinctively lifting to the spot.

John sighed, shaking his head exasperatedly as he turned, leaving Sherlock to gape at his blond hair. “Come on,” he muttered, beckoning with a hand. “Gotta get ice on that before the swelling gets too bad, otherwise you won’t be able to talk. Not that that would be the worst thing,” he added with a tip of his head, and Sherlock spluttered incredulously at the side of his face as he drew up level. “Why would you do that?” John continued, turning his face up with a scolding frown. “You’re lucky you still have all your _teeth_! Elliot’s easily twice your size.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Sherlock retorted, glaring as John scoffed. “What, you think I woke up this morning with the burning desire to bleed in a school corridor?”

“No, I think you have to prove you’re the smartest one in the room, even at your own expense,” John spat back without missing a beat, and Sherlock’s jaw scraped the floor.

“What- How- I don’t even _know_ you!” he bleated, and John opened his mouth, rounding on him, and then stalled, the ferocity withering in his gaze as he sighed, rattling his head down at the floor.

“You’re right,” he said curtly as he lifted his chin, stopping in the corridor, Sherlock carrying on a few more steps toward the nurse’s office before he turned back. “I- Sorry,” he muttered, shaking his head as he began to retreat back the way they’d come. “I shouldn’t’ve said anything.” He lifted his eyes to Sherlock’s, a forced sort of cold in his gaze, and Sherlock flinched as the blond turned around, every step thickening the guilt in his throat.

“John,” he finally blurted, and the boy turned halfway back around, brows pulling together in inquiry. Sherlock’s mouth flapped soundlessly a moment, his fingers twitching awkwardly in the air in front of him in aborted hand gestures. “What- That thing you did- Before, the-the other thing,” he muttered, gesturing in the general direction of where the altercation had taken place. “That was- I, er-”

A laugh hissed through John’s nose, soft smile brightening his eyes as he looked down to scuff his trainer across a tile. “You’re welcome, Sherlock,” he said, lifting his chin, and Sherlock’s arms fell to his sides as he fought to glare through the flutter of activity in his chest at hearing his name roll off John’s tongue.

“I didn’t say thank you,” he snapped, and John laughed, hands sliding smugly into his pockets as he turned, continuing away down the corridor.

“Of course you didn’t,” he called back as he reached the corner, and then disappeared, leaving Sherlock frozen under the fluorescent lights, not quite sure what he was feeling or why he was suddenly smiling.

Clearing his throat and flattening out his lips, he started once again toward the nurse’s office, but, just as he reached the door, his mobile beeped in his pocket, and he pulled it out, leaning against the wall while his heart flipped at the displayed name.

**_Someone’s had a busy morning_ **

_Oh? What have you done?_

**_Not gotten myself punched, that’s for sure_ **

Sherlock sighed, letting his skull bump back against the plaster as he shook his head, internally bemoaning the speed of the proverbial grapevine.

_I didn’t GET myself punched. It wasn’t exactly on my to-do list for the day_

**_You should be more careful_ **

_How is this my fault? It’s not like I walked into his fist._

**_No but you antagonized the situation_ **

_Triple word score, congratulations!_

**_Sherlock this is serious_ **

_Why is everyone blaming me for this?_

**_I’m not blaming you, I’m just saying you should be more careful. That fight could’ve ended a lot worse._ **

**_Who’s blaming you?_ **

Sherlock turned, eyes automatically looking down at the spot John had disappeared.

_No one, just somebody I was talking to afterwards._

**_Who?_ **

_A guy from a couple of my classes. He saw the fight, played knight in shining armor opposite my damsel in distress._

For a long time, there was no reply, Sherlock checking three times to be sure the message had sent, and was just considering turning the phone off and back on when it lit up with a reply.

**_I’m sure he was only trying to help_ **

_I didn’t ask for his help_

**_That doesn’t mean you didn’t need it_ **

Sherlock grumbled, infuriated at the sense of it, but leave it to John Watson to make him abandon all logic. Before he could decide on his reply, however, the mobile beeped again.

**_Though I’m a little worried about this knight in shining armor bit_ **

Sherlock laughed, a sudden bark that he quickly bit off, loitering in the halls giggling to himself not exactly something he wanted to be written up for, rather tired of being forced to visit the school counselor.

_Not the damsel in distress part?_

**_No that I already knew. I don’t have to be jealous do I?_ **

_Would you be?_

**_The socially acceptable answer is no_ **

**_But yes I would be_ **

Sherlock laughed, and then winced, the grin stinging at the sealing cut on his lip, reminding him of his purpose.

_You don’t have to be, he’s just a person._

**_A person?_ **

_Well he’s not a cat. Anyway, I’m supposed to go get ice for my wounds._

**_Alright. Don’t start any more brawls._ **

_Hilarious_.

**_I know, but thanks for the reminder. Talk to you later_ **

Sherlock slipped the phone back into his pocket, tilting his face up to the ceiling as he blew out a breath, trying to calm the anxious wriggling in his stomach, but it would not be placated. There was no reason for him to feel this way, thick slimy guilt swatting at his insides and slithering up his throat, but he _did_ feel guilty, although, in his defense, he hadn’t known it was a lie until he’d already sent the message.

As well as he felt he knew the person on the other end of the SMS exchange, he hadn’t _met_ them, hadn’t memorized the way they tapped the rubber of their pencil to their lip when they were thinking, or the way their eyes sparkled when they smiled, and there was something about those things that an emotional connection couldn’t quite overcome, some things really needing a body to go with them before they could be fully realized.

And, as far as bodies went, John Watson had one—Christ, did he have one—but Sherlock didn’t know him either, not really, not more than a single conversation and a lot of creepy staring could provide.

Sherlock pinched his eyes shut, banging his head hard against the wall.

Irene was going to laugh for days.

*********

As it turned out, Irene only laughed for about four hours, sending him texts all throughout the school day with various options for Dear John letters, an idiomatic coincidence she found hilarious, considering one of the potential recipients actually was a John. ‘It’s not your emoticons, it’s me’ and ‘I wanna text other numbers’ were her personal favorites of the supposed chest full of gems she had provided throughout the day, because, in her mind, there was no contest.

“The _rugby_ team, Sherlock!” she had whined on their way out the gate, walking together to the bus stop, which they rode together a couple stops before their paths split. “ _Rugby_! And he’s not even missing teeth yet!”

“You don’t know that,” he’d replied, fingers shifting over the surface of his mobile, which had gone untouched for the remainder of the day. “Some of them could be fake.”

“You’re right,” she’d agreed, always a bad sign. “You should stick your tongue in his mouth and find out.”

“Irene.”

“ _RUGBY!_ ”

She’d been marginally more help on Friday, only pretending to fall asleep twice while he was bemoaning his predicament during their smoke break, and had even offered to go with him to the game that night, but he had declined.

No matter what he decided, he needed to do it on his own.

Of course, there were some unforeseen complications, namely a certain John Watson himself, sweaty and dirt-streaked and _fuck_ if Sherlock didn’t have a kink for knee socks he could have happily gone his whole life without knowing was hiding in the back of his mind.

By the end of the game, he was a shivering mess, barely hearing Molly well enough to decline when she invited him along to Pizza Express, apparently the traditional post-win spot for the team and anyone else brave enough, but Molly, being Mike’s girlfriend, didn’t really have a choice.

“No,” he had muttered, “I have plans,” he had said, but now, leaning against a metal support of the bleachers, fingers shaking as he puffed smoke out of his mouth in perfect rings, he wondered if he shouldn’t’ve gone with her.

Pulling his phone out of the pocket of his trench coat, he checked the previous messages for the eighth time, his ears acutely tuned to any approaching sounds.

**_Back corner of the bleachers, the ones facing the car park._ **

_When?_

**_Around 9. Maybe a little before._ **

_Okay_

**_Don’t be nervous_ **

_I’m not_

**_Oh sorry not you, I was just motivational speaking at myself_ **

**_I’m also pretty and smart and talented and doing the best I can as a parent_ **

**_Seriously that happened, my mum gave me some CDs once and said they really helped her and I should check them out_ **

**_I nearly crashed my car when that bit came on_ **

_You’re rambling_

**_Yeah I do that. Sorry._ **

_Don’t be._

_I’m not entirely unaffected by the prospect of meeting you either_

**_Do you ever lie awake at night and think about the finger energy you could save by just admitting to things?_ **

_I’m trying to bulk up. Okay I’m here_

**_Alright have fun! I’ll see you after._ **

_Alright_

**_Oh and Sherlock?_ **

_Yeah?_

**_I know I can’t make you promise, but will you try not to hate me?_ **

_Why would I hate you?_

**_You just might._ **

_Why?_

_Hello?_

_And the award for creepiest cryptic exit goes to…_

_Okay I’m gonna head over now_

_Here_

And he still _was_ here, the grass cold on the backs of his legs as he stretched them out in front of him, trying to sketch together the constellations that hung like far-off chandeliers above him. He lifted his phone, checking the time to find 9:07 staring back at him, as well as three messages from Irene he hadn’t been able to find the courage to open yet, and then sighed, sliding his mobile into his pocket as he contemplated his next move.

Three minutes. He’d give them three more minutes. 9:10 was a nice round number, the kind of number just made for giving up on. Of course, but the time he actually stood up, brushing the clinging damp of the grass from the back of his coat and trousers, it was 9:13, although he supposed that was fitting in its own way, unlucky just the same as him.

He hovered his hand over his pocket, contemplating sending a message to inform Conversation Hearts that he was leaving, but thought better of it, letting his hand lift once again to the cigarette in his mouth.

He’d probably seen him and taken off, or never intended to come at all, and a leaden weight settled in Sherlock’s chest that he knew could only mean one thing.

He was one of the losers now.

“Sherlock?”

He startled, choking on smoke as he spun around, coughing and blinking wildly as he found John’s curious face through the grey haze.

“What are you- Are you _smoking_!?” He stepped forward, mouth dropping open as his brows knitted together, but Sherlock was not in the mood, rolling his eyes to the heavens. “Are you _insane_!? Someone could see you! Not to mention, you know, you’ll _die_!”

“What, right now?” Sherlock replied, blinking with feigned innocence. “Phew, that’s convenient! I was thinking I’d have to suffer through this lecture first!”

John sneered, unamused, and then simply fixed Sherlock with a steady look that made him too uncomfortable not to oblige, dropping his cigarette to the ground and grinding it into the dirt with his shoe.

“Happy?” he snapped, flicking his arms out in gesture, and, though John didn’t quite smile, his expression did soften.

“Ecstatic,” he replied, ambling closer across the grass, adjusting the strap of his athletic bag on his shoulder, and he looked so _clean_ , his hair still damp and sticking up in patches, Sherlock’s mind warring with itself on which version he preferred: pre or post victory shower.

Or just plain old during victory sho-

He rattled his head, calling his consciousness back to the sounds John’s moving lips were making.

“So, what are you doing back here?” he asked, shrugging at the surroundings.

“I-” Sherlock began, and then realized he had no idea how to finish. “Nothing,” he muttered, shaking his head as he shuffled a step backward toward the car park. “I was just- I was just leaving.”

“Wait!,” John beckoned, and Sherlock turned, curious at the urgency of it. John’s earnest expression eased somewhat, but he still looked nervous, his fingers twisting unnecessarily at the strap of his bag. “I-I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he said hesitantly, face pinching in a self-conscious grimace. “I didn’t mean to- Before, I- I shouldn’t’ve said what I did.”

Sherlock shrugged, the exchange already forgotten, as far as he was concerned.

“You’re not- You don’t really- It’s not that you have to _prove_ anything, you just-” John floundered, hands shifting weakly in the air as he struggled to find the words, and Sherlock abruptly found himself laughing, shaking his head down at the grass.

“You were right the first time,” he admitted, smiling as John warily met his eyes. “I do occasionally have difficulty…holding my tongue,” he mumbled, and John laughed. “But only because other people don’t hold theirs first,” he added in a rush, and John lifted his hands, resigning the point.

“Fair enough,” he allowed, and Sherlock chuckled, the both of them gradually falling to silence as they stared across the space between them, which John closed slightly as he began ambling forward. “Look, um, I know it’s not really your thing,” he started, rolling a hand through the air as he tipped his head, “but- Well, everyone always goes to Pizza Express after the games, and- I mean, if you’re not busy…” He trailed away, apparently incapable of getting all the way to end punctuation, but the sentiment was conveyed regardless, and it didn’t escape Sherlock’s notice that his heart flipped even grander than it had been all week, the feeling apparently redirected.

Still though, he hesitated, his hand brushing through his pocket to the hard outline of his phone. His phone that had never gone off.

“Okay,” he answered before he lost his nerve, and John’s eyes shot wide, his body wobbling backward on the shockwave of the word. “But I’m not sitting next to Elliot,” he added, and John laughed, softening the tension.

“I don’t think anyone wants that,” he chuckled, shaking his head, and then simply smiled, holding Sherlock’s gaze. “Well, I’m parked just up there,” he added, nodding up the hill, and Sherlock bobbed his head in reply, falling into stride alongside John as they began winding their way through the bleachers.

The silence was taut, nothing much to pull from for topics apart from the mutual anxiety Sherlock could feel thrumming through the air, but, luckily, John was even more uncomfortable with silences than he was.

“So,” the blond chirped, ducking his head to avoid a particularly low crossbeam, “what’s your favorite color?”

“What?” Sherlock laughed, turning to him, but John only shrugged.

“I’m making conversation. Doing that whole get-to-know-you thing.”

“By asking me my favorite color?”

“Baby steps, Sherlock, baby steps,” John quipped, tipping a smile back over his shoulder as he dodged around a thick support beam, and Sherlock smiled back only a second before he froze, body rattling to a stop as he stared down at the grass, heart thundering in his ears. A few feet ahead, John stopped, realizing Sherlock wasn’t beside him any longer, and turned back, a curious frown creasing his features.

“Wha-What did you say?” Sherlock breathed, lungs not seeming to have the oxygen for full-bodied words in spite of the fact that he was borderline hyperventilating.

John’s brows twitched together, his head tilting as his mouth made to open, and then he stilled, dawning comprehension swiping across his features, and that was all Sherlock needed to see.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, stretching a hand out behind him to feel for obstacles as he staggeringly retreated. “Oh my _god_!”

“Sherlock, please, I can-”

“It was _you_!” he blurted, eyes popping even wider as John’s outstretched pleading arms wilted to his sides, a defeated sigh ghosting over his lips. “You-You sent- _You_!?”

“Sherlock, please,” John urged, batting his hands at him as he wound his way back through the metal maze, but Sherlock had no interest in hearing it, turning and storming his way back toward the pitch. “Sherlock! Sherlock, where are you even _going_?”

“Away!”

“Away where?”

“Away _far_!”

“Sherlock!”

“Why did you do it!?” he exploded, spinning on the spot just shy of where the bleachers broke to open sky, and John froze where he stood about a meter away. “Why? Do you and your mates really have _nothing_ better to do than sit around texting me while you drink protein shakes and plait one another’s chest hair!?”

John blinked at him, expression nothing short of utter shock. “What the _hell_ are you talking about!?” he spluttered, and Sherlock huffed a laugh of bitter humor.

“I’ll give it to you, though, it was _very_ elaborate,” he hissed, swallowing hard as he firmly threatened his tear ducts with removal if they kept up that burning bullshit. “So, was it just you texting, or did you all take turns? Oh, and make sure to tag me in the screenshots on Facebook; I wouldn’t want to miss out on all the _likes_!” he exclaimed with violent enthusiasm, and John seemed to shake out of a trance, life sparking back into his eyes with a vengeance.

“You think this was some sort of _prank_!?” he spat, mouth dropping when Sherlock scoffed at the obviousness of the fact. “How could you- Why would I even _do_ that!?”

“Why does anyone do anything?” Sherlock replied, shrugging with a flick of his arms. “I couldn’t even _begin_ to fathom your logic.”

“No, apparently you can’t!” John challenged, stomping a few steps forward before Sherlock could retreat to even the distance. “Sherlock, I like you,” he said, stern and even and not the slightest bit uncertain, and, though it was kind of absolutely everything he’d wanted to hear since John Watson had walked up to the front of the classroom two years ago and been forcibly introduced by the teacher, that was precisely why he didn’t believe it. “And this is not a prank, okay? It never was, I- I know it’s weird and kind of crazy and probably really hard to believe, but-”

“Are you filming this?” Sherlock interjected, and John’s entire body sank in confusion.

“What?” he murmured, and Sherlock lifted his eyes away, scanning the surrounding shadows.

“Are you filming this?” he repeated, glancing across in time to see John’s jaw set. “Or is the team just watching from somewhere? I’m surprised they’ve been able to keep quiet this long if they are, but, where there’s a will…”

“You’re serious,” John said tonelessly, staring at him like he could see clear through to his soul. “You really don’t believe me.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock huffed, a shard of a smile snagging at his lips as he shook his head, and John dropped his face, jaw shifting.

“Why not?” he countered, face squared with determination as he lifted his chin, shoulder twitching in a shrug. “What is _so_ unbelievable about it that you’re more likely to accuse me of _filming this_ than accepting that I like you?”

“Oh please, don’t make yourself a _martyr_ ,” Sherlock spat, rolling his eyes as he made to move away, but John shifted, blocking his path.

“No, tell me!” he urged, and it was clear Sherlock wasn’t getting out of this without some sort of spectacle, the barriers holding back the tangle of pain and fury wearing thin in his racing mind. “Tell me why that is so _impossible_ to you! Why you cannot even _imagine_ that I could _ever_ -”

“Because you’re you!” Sherlock spouted, and John blinked, staggering back a step in alarm. Sherlock panted in ragged gasps, his vision blurring as he waved a hand out at the blond. “Because-Because you enjoy dissection days, and color-code your notes, and bite your lip when you’re thinking, and play rugby in fucking _knee socks_ -”

“Knee socks?”

“Yes! You and your _fucking_ knee socks!” he accused, jabbing a finger at him, and John lifted his brows. “You can’t like me!” he practically ordered, and John looked at him then, really looked at him, the kind of look you just know is seeing things you meant to keep hidden. “You can’t, because- Because people like you…they don’t like people like me,” he muttered, shaking his head as John stepped closer, physically incapable of tearing his eyes away from the blue ones staring back at him. “They just don’t, and it’s fine, it’s just the way things are, but that doesn’t mean you can-” He broke off in a yelp as John reached him, and then kept going, pushing Sherlock backward. For a split second, he was sure he was going to fall, his feet fumbling out from beneath him, but then he felt one of the metal supports at his back, a shock of cold that pulled in a gasp of air just before John’s lips crushed against his.

Sherlock had been kissed before—or, at least, he’d thought he had—but this was something different, something transcendent, and, for a long moment, there was nothing he could do but stand there, thankful for the support at his back as his knees dissolved.

John’s hand was cold where it wrapped up his neck, fingertips draped along his jaw and into his hair, which he tugged lightly, prompting Sherlock to tilt his head just enough to perfect the seal of John’s mouth on his. John’s other hand was wrapped around his waist, tucked inside his coat to press his grey jumper into his hip, and, as he tightened that arm slightly, pressing Sherlock against his chest, Sherlock whimpered faintly, his first real demonstration of coherence. Of course, the shift of his lips allowed John to snake his tongue across the seam, and Sherlock lost whatever ground he’d gained, mind spinning away from him again as he opened his mouth, managing to grip onto either side of John’s open rugby jacket.

Luckily, John didn’t seem to require him to do much, simply shuffling in to pin him against the metal beam as he licked into his mouth, his tongue deftly alternating between hard swipes and barely there touches, whispers of words traced along the inside of his lips. Sherlock shivered, half mad with need as everything he’d tried to never think about flashed across his mind’s eye—the kind of video you’d want to have an ambiguous name on your credit card receipt and to arrive in discreet brown packaging—and he moaned, tugging John in as tight as he could as he pushed back into his mouth.

John practically growled in response, fingernails scraping across his scalp as he tightened his hold in Sherlock’s hair, and that was the last thing Sherlock remembered until they were pulling apart for air, both shaking as they panted over one another’s lips.

John’s hand was still in his hair, fingertips tracing soft circles on the back of his neck, and Sherlock just watched him a long moment, memorizing the sheen of his swollen lips and fluttering of his lashes surrounding blown-black eyes. Slowly, touching first at his chin so as not to startle him, Sherlock lifted a thumb to John’s bottom lip, tracing over the slick surface.

“Okay,” he croaked, and then swallowed, nodding as he continued. “Okay, I-I believe you.”

John stilled, a wrinkle forming between his brows, and then burst into laughter, shaking his head as he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Oh, you do, do you?” he teased, chuckling when Sherlock nodded, and then tipped his chin, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s in a brief affirming press. “Well, good,” he continued, beginning to pull away. “Because I’m freezing,” he added, and Sherlock laughed. “Seriously, I’m going to have to start picking which toes I love most, because there’s no way I can keep them all.”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head, and then pushed up away from the support beam, smiling as he bobbed his head back toward John’s car. “Let’s go, then,” he said, grinning when John quirked a brow. “Somebody promised me Pizza Express,” he added, and John laughed, turning toward the car park as he nodded.

“That I did,” he mused, Sherlock falling into step alongside him. “That I did.”

They were quiet until they’d nearly reached the car, sneaking sidelong glances here and there when they thought the other wasn’t looking, and then John once again broke the quiet, spinning his keys around a finger as he pulled them from his pocket.

“I can’t believe you ditched me,” he muttered, a hint of a smile peeking through his frown. “You were just gonna run off to Pizza Express with some relative _stranger_. Didn’t even text to see if I was still coming! I could’ve been dying in a ditch somewhere.”

“What?” Sherlock bleated, snapping his head to him. “How is that- I didn’t _ditch_ you! And, if I did, I ditched you for you, so I hardly see how it’s relevant.”

“It’s the _principle_ of the thing!”

“Says the man who let me think I’d been stood up.”

John fell silent, steps slowing as he cast a look of trepidation out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock meeting it with a quirk of his brow. John cleared his throat, shifting the keys in his hand, and Sherlock smiled as he rounded to the passenger side, content with the small victory.

He slipped into the seat, bouncing a bit to try and warm himself up as John dropped in beside him, promptly twisting the key into the ignition, and the car was instantly filled with music, a song from John’s iPod picking up where it had left off.

_‘I've got so much honey the bees envy me.’_

Sherlock stared at the speakers, his face stretching in gleeful mockery while John’s paled in horror. “No,” he breathed, turning his head to John, who flinched, teeth pinching at his bottom lip.

 “Are you fucking-”

“It’s not the same thing! This is the actual song!”

_‘I've got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees.’_

 “How badly did you wanna be doing the singing telegrams, be honest?”

“It’s not the same thing! The Temptations are a perfectly respectable-”

“Like, on a scale of 1 to 10?”

_‘Well, I guess you'd say…’_

 “You’re ridiculous.”

“I thought I was adorable?”

_‘What can make me feel this way?’_

“You’re both. You can change the song, you know.”

“…”

 “OH MY GOD!”

 “You don’t have Nat King Cole, do you?”

_‘My girl (my girl, my girl)’_

“Of course I do. And, like…a 6.”

 “And a half?”

“Shut up.”

_‘Talkin' 'bout my girl (my girl!)’_


End file.
